Valentine's Day? Is that Still a Thing?
by TARossum
Summary: Under the pressure of Valentine's Day, Dean calls Renee who is currently working in Paris and will not return for another month. She's already been there for two months, but Dean hasn't talked to her since she left. Innocent as he means for the call to be, he ends up saying more than he planned.


"It's on the table next to me . . . yeah, I got her number, I'm telling you." A pause. "No, I'm not gonna call her." Dean looked at the torn piece of paper with the phone number scrawled there with black ink. For somebody who hasn't seen it before it'd be difficult to decipher the numbers as he once left it nearby an open window and raindrops landed on the paper and repositioned the ink. But he was still able to read it; for one thing, this wasn't the first he was looking at it. 6 at the end resembled 8, but he knew it was 6. In fact, he pretty much knew the order of the numerals by heart. "Yeah, I'm here."

He tilted his head to the right and secured the phone with his head. Holding it between his shoulder and the head, his right arm freed itself and was able to reach for the paper. He doubted how long he'd be able to sustain that position and better put his left hand on the side of the phone to prevent it from falling on the desk or on the floor. In the right hand, he still held that paper, squeezing it and effectively causing even more damage to it.

"She gave it to me just in case," Dean said. "I don't know," he raised his voice, "in case of emergency." He rolled his eyes at the remark. "Oh, yeah, yeah," he spoke sarcastically, "she _cer_tainly wanted me to call her. Yeah, she planned the whole thing just so that I'd call her." He laughed for effect. "Now what? You want me to go there? Should I fly there to surprise her?" He freed his left hand now for it to join the right one in holding the small piece of paper. He spread it in front of him and read the phone number in his head. "It's not like she's never coming back," Dean reminded him. "So what? It's a day like any other. . . . Sorry, but I really don't see how it's special," he interrupted the other person in talking. "Bullshit . . . bullshit," he kept commenting the ideas that he heard, "oh, bullshit."

A glass of water caught his attention. There wasn't much liquid left in it – and it wasn't like Dean had interest in drinking it anyway – but he grabbed it with his right hand and then sent it across the table so that the other hand could catch it. "No. Why?" He did not mind multitasking. Besides, none of those two actions required his full attention. "Tell me, what's so special about it?" He was offered an answer, but Dean clearly disagreed. "Oh my god!" he cried. "I'm not a sixteen-year old girl to be interested in that." He caught the glass for the last time as he decided playing hockey with it was not the brightest idea he had. But that wouldn't prevent him from playing with it. "You're embarrassing yourself." Dean was turning the glass around, making water in it go up and down . . . he liked watching the waves he was creating. He felt like God . . . or Moon. . . . "Shit!" he shouted as the glass hit the surface, broke, water spilled and now flowed all over the surface of the desk. "Nothing," he replied. "Just . . . wait a second." He put the phone down, grabbed some tissues and wiped the desk. Then he collected the broken glass and put it in the bin. At least he didn't have anything valuable on the table . . . except for the paper with her number. Well, that was already pretty devastated anyway.

"I'm back," he said to the phone. He listened to the question, and then replied, "Just a little tsunami." He smiled. "Kidding!" He kept the good mood despite the disaster. "078," he repeated in whisper the last numbers that appeared in front of him on the all-wet piece of paper. "Jeez, it's dripping," he spoke to himself. When he squeezed the paper, water falling from it created a puddle. "What do you mean, what I'm talking about?" Dean asked, annoyed by the question. "The flood." He had to get another tissue to dry the desk. "Of course I'm listening to you," he said while cleaning the mess he has made. "That's incredible!"

No, he wasn't really listening. But to his defense, he just found out that the writing became illegible due to his stupidity and also he had mistaken 6 for 8. He should rewrite it before it's too late. His eyes searched for a sheet of paper and a pen. Then a simpler solution offered itself . . . or a lazier one. "00 33 . . . Just write it down," Dean commanded. "Yeah, as I said . . . got it?" He examined the numbers and tried not to make a mistake. "Ok. 7 56 74 34 78." He nodded as though the person on the other side could see him. "Yeah, that's all," he confirmed. "Oh, wait! The last is 6, not 8. . . . I say, it's 6!" Dean stressed. "Yeah . . . And could you send it back to me?" Dean looked away in irritation. "Because I can't find a paper!" He sighed. "No, I don't have a notepad here. Just send it to me. I'm not asking for your _kid_ney, dammit. . . ."

His focus switched to his desk. He looked right at the drawers and opened the top one. "Never mind," he spoke to the phone. There was a notepad and a pen near it so he took both out. But to avoid making a mistake – or at least he thought that would help – he did not look at the evidence, the piece of paper he had in hand, but recalled from memory the phone number. "00 33," that was the easiest part. But then he paused. He took a breath and looked outside the window, into the greyness of the city. "I'm not talking to you," he said to the person he was supposed to be talking to but wasn't. The tree in front of the building would make him focus. "7 56 74 24 76." Was that it, he wondered. He got a response from the other side of the line. "What? No! You're sure?" He checked the number he had on the rumpled sheet of paper and compared it with the one he had just jotted down. "Yeah, it's supposed to be 3, you're right," he admitted the mistake.

He smiled at what he heard. "I don't think so. . . . Well, yeah, that's true, but we'll deal with it when she returns." He grabbed the paper ball to throw it into the bin, but he changed his mind in the last second and placed it back on the table. So what that he had a copy; he still wanted to keep the original, however illegible it was. "I hear ya." There was a smile on his face, and it didn't feel like leaving. "It would be weird –" "Yes, it would," he said more assuredly. "I haven't talked to her for two months." He listened for a while, his mind coming up with new ways to entertain itself, but there was still the memory of the last divertissement and its disastrous ending so he chose to do nothing that would keep him busy. "In a month, I think. . . . Three weeks. . . . I'm not sure," he said and continued, "Didn't she say she'd be back in March?"

Since he already had a sheet of paper laying in front of him, and a pen, he thought he might fill the empty space around the series of numbers. His hand moved spontaneously across the paper, creating meaningless shapes and filling their insides with ink. He then redrew the lines forming the numbers, making them look fatter and less organized. But 6 looked like 6, and there emerged a rectangular around the numerical order, the lines of which he made himself a promise not to cross. He could draw, write or tear all he could outside the object with elongated shape but the inside was sacred. Just on the border he wrote in large block letters RENEE. "I'm busy," he replied to the annoyed voice. He was occupying himself with highly-artistic activity, now thickening her name as well. In the end, it became a big dark mess of some letters that were supposed to make sense. He was whispering her name again and again – but she didn't appear in front of him even after the third time – until that word stopped making sense. Was that even English, he wondered. No, it was French, wasn't it? Suddenly he had this great urge to google the meaning of her name. "What does Renee mean?" he asked, interrupting the other person mid-sentence. "Huh . . . Uh-huh. No. I'm just curious." He raised his voice, "It doesn't have to do with anything."

He chuckled. "Yeah, of _course_," he said sarcastically. He listened to the lecture while scrawling on the paper, covering all the drawings and writings but avoiding contact with the rectangular. "I don't know. Perhaps . . . if there's nothing good on TV," he said and laughed at his own joke. Then he made himself sound a bit more serious. "I really don't know whether I'll call her or not. If I were you, I wouldn't bet on it." The ink from the pen smutched the paper, and the white space around the numbers did not look white anymore either. It was greyish with stains due to his recent activity. "It's a day like any other," he said. And "I'm not gonna support that commercial bullshit." He laughed at something he heard. "I never said that! Where do you have _that_ from?" "Ok. I'll think about it . . . is that enough?" He kept the good mood. "I said I'd consider it." At the same time, the level of reality awareness remained high. "But it's not like there are no hot guys in Paris. . . . The way I see it, the most probable scenario is that it'd go like this: I call her, I wish her happy Valentine's Day, she thanks me and wishes me the same, maybe asks me how I'm doing, what's new with me or what's new over here in general, I say 'I'm good, thanks,' I ask when she's coming back, she replies, than I say 'Well, that's great, see you then. We need to do something when you come back,' or something . . . she says 'Yeah, sure, that'd be great.' And that's pretty much it. One of us hangs up, and we won't talk to each other until she actually returns." Dean chuckled although previously there was a saddened expression on his face, which in fact suited the situation better. "I _am_ right. . . . Doesn't matter; let's not make a big deal out of it. . . . I'll probably just end up watching some old WrestleMania matches . . . or the Vintage Collection." He laughed. "_No!_ So what that she hosts it? By that logic I could watch Total Divas!" Another half-forced-half-real laughter came. "Oh, I'm not doing that. I'd rather spend Valentine's Day watching the premiere of –" he cut it off. "Never mind."

"Don't ask me that!" he said loudly. "I'm not answering that question." A sigh preceded the answer that came despite the resentment. "Ok, let's say I do. But I miss her the regular way, you know . . . like a friend." He shouted, "Don't go psychological on me! I know what you're doing. You're trying to put these ideas in my head that I wish I could spend Valentine's Day with her. . . . Well, I don't." His voice did not sound as persuasive as Dean hoped. He was about to fill the untouchable box with ink, sort of destroying his chance to ever call her. But just as he knew the phone number by heart, his hand disobeyed the orders, therefore the option still existed. And he was starting to waver on the issue of confidence in never calling her. . . . Or at least not tonight.

He looked outside to get some perspective. To clear his mind. It was too late; his mind was already invaded. "Ok, I'm gonna end the call now," he informed the person listening to him. "I need to make another call." He hung up.

"00 33 7 56 74 34 76," he said out loud while dialing those numbers. She gave him that number right after she got it – the week she arrived in France. She wasn't using her American number so this became the only way to get in touch with her. Not that Dean ever used the opportunity. He never even wondered if there could be a special reason why she has given it to him . . . that perhaps she wanted him to call her.

His thinking stopped when he heard a person pick up the phone. She was in France, yes, but it still surprised him to hear French words. "Bonjour," she said.

A wide smile appeared on his face. He wouldn't admit the accent turned him on a little. But that was secondary; the main reason for the good mood was the simplest there could be: hearing her voice.

"Allô?" she asked.

Dean chuckled. "Don't go French on me!"

He heard her laughter, and he loved it. She switched to English. "Well, that's a voice I haven't heard in a while," she said enthusiastically.

"So I take it you still know who I am," he played with her.

"Of course, Dean, how could I forget about you?"

There was a second-long silence that none of them felt the need to fill. He was smiling throughout. Then he asked, "So how's Paris?"

"Beautiful," she answered simply.

"How are the French guys?"

Renee chuckled. "Beautiful." She couldn't possibly know this neutralized Dean's smile, but she added, "But I prefer American boys."

"Does that mean you're spending Valentine's Day all by yourself?"

"Is that why you're calling?" she guessed. In an instant she became suspicious of him. "Because of Valentine's Day?"

He could hear her thoughts . . . _Smooth_ . . . She must have been laughing.

"No," he said, but he failed to decide beforehand whether he wanted to sound realistic so he ended up making it effortless for her to distinguish the clear lie. "I was just bored. . . . And I found the number you gave me so I wanted to see if it worked."

"Dean? _Really?_"

"Fine," he cried, admitting the lie. "I did call to wish you a Happy Valentine's Day," he said in an awfully bored voice, making it sound as though he didn't care at all and said it – and called – out of pure necessity.

"Okay." She showed the same lack of interest. "Happy Valentine's Day to you too then."

The silence that followed was an awkward one.

Dean was the one to interrupt it. "When are you coming back?"

"Umm . . ." Even that short interjection was enough to provide an evidence for her confused, and clearly worsened mood. She must have been wondering what Dean's goal was. Why he acted so coldly . . . "In about a –"

"I miss you," Dean suddenly said.

"What?"

Dean swallowed and successfully fought away the embarrassment over the honesty. "I miss you," he repeated. It had a great effect on him; he was smiling again, however stupid he felt at that moment. "I'm calling because . . ." A short pause. "Because I couldn't go on without hearing your voice." He was nervous, and this emotion was mirrored at the activity of squeezing the paper ball that the sheet of paper with the telephone number became. But it was a nice kind of nervousness. Encouraging one. Besides, he didn't need the phone number anymore. And the sacred box too could go to hell.

"Dean?" There could be heard uncertainty on her part.

"I had to call you today. Even if I didn't, I'd probably call tomorrow."

"Why didn't you call sooner?" she asked.

Why didn't he? Was he too proud to undergo the mission of the weak? Did he seriously think he would survive without three months of not talking to her?

"I don't know," he gave the most honest answer he could think of. Suddenly a wave of fear and frustration hit the coast of his brain just as that of the heart. "Is it too late?" She let him wait, biting his lip, peeling the skin off his finger. "Ouch!" That hurt. That was stupid. But he couldn't withstand the pressure of not knowing. "Renee?"

"What?" He heard her voice again, and the what sounded as though she had been distracted and now lost track of their conversation.

"Is it too late?" he asked again.

"Too late for what?"

Ok, was she now teasing him? Why couldn't she reply directly? Or didn't she get what he was saying? Then it occurred to him that she never told him if she wasn't seeing someone, if she didn't have any Valentine's Day plans.

"Dean, what's going on?"

He tore the paper to pieces. There was a feeling it wasn't going well. He should have planned it, or stick to the _Happy Valentine's Day, talk to you later_. He grabbed another sheet of paper from the notepad. He got the pen, and started writing.

He gave it a heading: Valentine's Day. Then _Renee_ on the right. A line going down to the question: Is she seeing someone? His mind offered a counter-argument: "I prefer American boys." He wrote it in quote marks. Another question under a new line linking her name, asking _Did she miss me?_ An answer for this was another question, and again it was a quote from her. "Why didn't you call sooner?" His eyes were glancing at the top, then the bottom, left and right, as his brain was working hard, examining the evidence, trying to quickly come with a solution.

"Dean?" she asked.

He was quiet for a while. He should say something. "I love you."

A response for him was silence accompanied with breathing. Did he freak her out? When the silence continued for another minute, he panicked and hung up.

A mistake . . . _mistake_ . . . was what kept returning in his head. He shouldn't have said that. He should have stuck to the original plan. Keep it easy.

He placed the phone on the desk. Then he pushed it further away from him and tried not to look at it. He grabbed the paper again, squeezed it so hard that he was hurting his hand and finally tore it and threw it into the trash can. That was the paper with her temporary phone number. Now his eyes locked on a different paper, the one with the research project. He wrote down his name and wrote "I love you" next to it. Then he crossed it, circled his name and wrote _Idiot_ on top. Again, he wondered whether she was in a relationship or was going out with someone. He glanced at the phone; why wasn't she calling him back? And the paper . . . he drew a heart in the middle. He filled its insides, and then drew a box around it . . . and some bars so that it looked like a cell in jail. A gun followed, firing at the "person" convicted of a crime.

The phone rang. _+33 7 56 74 34 76_. It was her. Dean took a deep breath before answering it. "Hello?" he said casually, as though none of the before happened.

"You love me?"

How could he describe her tone? Angry? Confused? Mild? _Happy_? He was not good at this; he would need more clues.

He had no strategy. Would it be better to pretend it was a mistake, a lie, or confess it was an unplanned admittance of the truth?

"Dean? It'd really appreciate if you said something now." No, he would not speak. "I know you're there."

His fingers were nervously tapping on the surface of the desk. She must have heard that, too.

"Dean, could you answer, please?" Now she was desperate; he was able to identify that emotion.

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I love you." Now she was the one keeping thoughts to herself. He felt awkward again and joked, "I said it twice. Now I can't take it back, can I?" He even laughed quietly to ease the tension. But it just felt out of place. It was her time to speak, but she didn't. "Renee? Is somebody there with you?"

"No, I'm all alone here."

"So you _can _talk."

"Yeah . . . just . . . give me a second, please."

He would, though he was not very keen on that idea.

However, he didn't expect her to hang up. Now he felt rejected and _really_ regretted his stupid idea to tell her the truth. Hell, Valentine's Day wasn't even such a big thing; why did he even call her in the first place? He should have kept it to himself. Now she won't talk to him and it will be awkward when she comes back.

Then the phone started ringing again.

"I'm sorry," Dean started before she would hang up again. "I did not mean to freak you out. All I said . . . forget about it. It was all under the pressure of Valentine's Day," he tried to come with a logical explanation.

"No, I'm sorry, Dean. I shouldn't have hung up on you . . . Now you regret saying it. Look at what I did. . . . I don't want you think that _I_ consider your confession stupid or something."

There lit a candle of hope in his chest, warming his heart, but he was still aware of how easily it could be blown out. He was getting nervous again. Where was that paper when he needed it? Since the old one was in the trash, he made a ball of the latter one, too. It was all too overwhelming thinking about the possible rejection. Dammit! Why can't she just say yes or no? Yes, I love you. No, you're the most disgusting creature I know. It's simple.

Her breathing wasn't enough to provide a sufficient description of what she was thinking. "The truth is," she started, "I miss you too. I do. When I look around . . . I'm happy around this new group of friends . . . but _you_'re not here. And it feels like something's wrong." Silence. "And to be honest, I'd much rather be with you right now." She sighed. "Shoot! How am I supposed to deal with this over the phone? This sucks. _Sucks!_ If you came here . . ." she though out loud, ". . . or if you waited until I come back. . . . I wish I could see you." Another moment of silence. "You know . . ." A sigh. Long and annoying pause. Was there a knife around that he could use to cut through his hand? "I've thought about you too," she finally admitted. "Of course I did. I knew that when I left, I was leaving in the middle of . . . I don't know, _something_. We haven't resolved _our_ thing," she said slowly, significantly. "I don't know if it was easier to run away from it . . . or I thought that this time alone would help me sort out my thoughts. Well, I spent so many hours thinking about you, recalling my last memory of you, that smiley face." She laughed. "And I gave you my number, perhaps hoping that maybe you'd give me a call –"

"Why didn't _you_ call?" Dean interrupted her.

She chuckled despite the seriousness. As if that wasn't enough, she didn't answer. And it appeared she never would, but finally, after almost two minutes, she said, "I didn't know what to make of it. First and foremost, we are friends. Okay, maybe those things that happened between us would not fit into the "friends" category, but I thought that they would not matter after three months of not seeing each other. . . . You'd forget, _I_'d forget. . . . Three months is a _lot_ of time."

"You're not really answering my question."

"I don't know why I didn't call, Dean. I was busy."

"Busy working? Or busy enjoying bohemian life in Paris?" Two months. What are the odds that she'd spend two months without hooking up with someone? And she was in Paris; of course she'd want to have a taste of the European capital. For some reason, he had this image of a tall slim guy in a suit – a businessman, perhaps – with piercing blue eyes and dark hair. He was very suave and he would get any girl he wanted without any effort. The guy was standing there in a coffee shop, in the queue right behind her, then he'd make some joke that she'd laugh at and whisper something sweet in her air . . . in _French_. Ugh.

"I should've called," she said. "I know. And I know this is a poor excuse, but since I came here, I sort of ignored my life in the United States. _All_ the people, not just you. . . . But still, just because I didn't call it doesn't mean I never thought about you."

If she ever meant to make him feel any better about confessing his feelings to her, this wasn't the way to go. Dean wasn't feeling in harmony with the situation. He needed to find a new activity. What was there? The notepad? Well, it still contained a lot of sheets of papers. He tore five out with a lot of noise and placed them over the desk. He grabbed the one on the left to fold it into a plane.

"You're there, Dean?"

"Uh-huh."

"I couldn't know if there was even a point of thinking about you. For one thing, I had no idea how you felt. . . . Maybe I was waiting for _you_ to call. Or maybe I was waiting for a sign."

"And saying I love you is not enough of a sign?" he interrupted his plane-building activity to say. "Jeez, that's the third time I'm saying it; would you shut me up already?" he said, but immediately afterward changed his position on this, realizing another thing. "Also, it's the third time I'm saying it, and I still got no response."

He still wouldn't get one, for she preferred silence to clearing things up for him. He was gonna give up trying when she said, "You know there's only one response to that . . . and I won't say it."

"Ok," he accepted the defeat.

"This is not something we should discuss over the phone. . . ."

"Tell me about it." He laughed. He felt stupid for calling her and saying he loved her. Well, that's one way to spend Valentine's Day: getting ridiculed over the phone. Phew, at least he didn't have to face her the next day. "I hope I didn't ruin your Valentine's Day. And I hope I haven't jeopardized our friendship. That would really suck."

"Well –"

He rather not let her finish. "Why did I have to call? Now you're mad at me and –"

This time she interrupted him. "_Mad_ at you? Why would I be mad at you?" she asked very sweetly, with a lot of affection, and laughing in the background. "You said you loved me and you think I'm gonna say I hate you?"

"Not exactly . . ." he said, though hardly assured of that not happening.

"You're so cute, Dean. The only thing I hate is that we're having this discussion over the phone. And if there's something I should be mad about it's that I can't be with you . . . I can't see you. . . . You said three times you loved me, yet not even once I saw your face while you were saying it. How's that fair?"

"I don't get it. Is it good or bad thing I said it? You're really confusing me. Should we pretend this never happened or should I keep trying?" he enumerated the questions that troubled him.

"You've already said it; you can't take it back," she said. "Besides, I don't really want you to."

"So . . . you feel the same way or . . . ?" He wasn't sure how to finish. He wasn't even sure whether it was a good idea to continue exploring the topic.

"I kinda do," Renee said. "For one thing, you're the person I miss the most. Probably you'd be the one reason why I couldn't stay here forever. . . . I mean, there's gotta be something. We love spending time with each other, we have fun . . ."

"But you don't love me," he judged by the words she used and the ones she omitted. It was as though she was saying _You're a great friend, but ugh, going out with you? No. No, I really don't think that would be a good idea._

"I never said that," Renee objected.

"But you never said you did." This was hard on his self-control. He stood up and moved over to the window. Then he changed his mind and stood by the wall, leaning against it, until his knees gave in and he found himself squatting with his back touching the cold wall. He might have appeared desperate, but he wasn't. Not really. He was just so confused and not knowing how to deal with the real possibility of rejection. Finally he sat down on the carpeted floor and put the phone away. The call was still ongoing, but now he couldn't hear what she was saying . . . if indeed she was saying something.

Dean looked up at the ceiling and kept staring at it for certainly more than ten seconds. By the time he grabbed his phone again, the call had already ended. Freedom was the most immediate feeling. But the situation hasn't been resolved. They re-opened the position they were in before she left for Paris. Not knowing what their situation was, not knowing where things would lead. But the silence he found himself surrounded by was reassuring. Calming, indeed.

She called again and the vibration ruined his peace. He reached for his phone without thinking.

"This is stupid," she said. "_You_ are stupid," she rephrased it. "How many more hints do you need?"

He stood up in an abrupt motion and hurried over to his desk. Among all those papers he found the one with his failed "research project." The ball returned to its initial state, that of a straight sheet of paper. What _did_ he miss? Yes, there were things suggesting she liked him, but their importance was negligible. Should he do a reassessment? Add new discoveries? What did she say? He tried to replay the conversation in his head, but it was too long for him to remember all of it. Try to focus on the important parts, at least. There was one thing that she kept repeating – stressing, really – throughout the whole phone call. . . . _over the phone_ . . . "We shouldn't discuss this over the phone," she said, or something similar. Was that the issue? He jotted down the new result of the observation. Now, was there more? Should he dwell on how she _never_ said she did _not_ love him?

For he focused on his research, Renee was the one to speak. "I know it's Valentine's Day," she said, "and it's possibly the most suitable occasion, but you won't hear me saying those three words _now._ That said, it doesn't mean if I said them, they wouldn't be true."

It was slowly starting to clear up, yet the level of confusion remained considerable. "I don't understand," he said, maybe just so that he'd get a more coherent answer. It shouldn't be that difficult, dammit!

"Then I'm gonna confuse you even more." She chuckled, evidently enjoying what she was doing. "Je t'aime, Dean."

It took another five seconds before it fully struck him. He smiled, and it grew into a gentle chuckle. His French was good enough to know what she said. It was clever and sly. "So saying _that_ doesn't go against your beliefs?"

"No." She laughed. "But I hope you get my point because I can't make it any clearer for you."

He knew she could. And he wouldn't give up that close to the finish line. "How about an English version?" he asked. He wasn't nervous anymore. Quite the opposite; he regained confidence. The anti-stress balls of paper were redundant. Now his eyes focused on the peaceful scenery outside. His ears impatiently waited for hearing her sweet voice again. But it was all alright. The heart was warm with the reassurance that she wouldn't push him down the endless hole but guide him through the unknown. Happiness replaced the confusion and fear of rejection. The feelings that seized him were such that he couldn't even imagine half an hour ago. All positive . . . but he needed that one last confession.

"I'm sure we'll get to that, too," Renee said.

That wasn't enough. He needed it _now_. "But . . . English, please," he begged as nicely as he could, putting all the effort into persuading her to give up her stubbornness.

"Dean," she sighed.

"_Please_," he insisted.

"I told you I wouldn't say it today."

He kept trying. "Valentine's Day present?" he suggested.

"I won't say it," she repeated.

The last thing he heard was her beautiful laughter. Then she hung up.

He received a text. _I love you_.


End file.
